


à désengager

by savi0urdr3amer



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Introspection, Loss of Humanity, POV Second Person, it's basically a collection of snippets about widow and they're a lil dark, mentions of torture and brainwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10028960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savi0urdr3amer/pseuds/savi0urdr3amer
Summary: to disengage. prounounced /ˌdisənˈɡāj/.verb.definition: to separate or release (someone or something) from something to which they are attached or connected.or: disengaging from amélie lacroix is simultaneously the best and worst decision widowmaker's ever made.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i've been rly slow writing anything outside of academia lately (fml) and i have failed the femslash gods during femslash february, i'm sorry ;-; i have a few smut ficlets here and there (including a vampire!mercymaker one) but none of them are appealing to me too much atm, i'm such a useless lesbian lmao, someone pls force me to write more 
> 
> (also i'm sorry for this trainwreck of a piece, it sounded cool as i was writing it but now it just sounds angsty when i read it lmao)

**i.**

three days after you murdered gérard in his sleep you strangled a man with your bare hands and vigor rushed through you like hot liquor. fire swam through your blood and made your broken body heat up, and your heart nearly broke out of your ribcage like a secret you couldn’t swallow anymore.

as you pictured your sternum shattering you smashed his skull in with your heel. you didn’t even bother to shake the blood from it.

red was always a good color on you.

**ii.**

the first headshot you landed was worthy of an award.

you spent hours locked three floors up in a dingy old warehouse, and just as the sun began to flicker out of the sky your target came into view. you had to aim through open spaces in rafters and beams, dusted old windows and a moving crowd of people, but he still lit up for you like a star in the night amidst all the dreary faces the darkness blotted out like ink on paper, and with a rush of excitement you pulled the trigger.

you smiled as his blood spattered like water from a gardening hose, and in seconds the screams of shocked bystanders were loud enough that even you could hear them. feeling fuller than you ever had before, you picked up your widow’s kiss and launched a grappling hook through a broken window.

the air was cold against your face and you didn’t look back.  
  
you knew what you did.

you knew damn well.

**iii.**

talon broke each of your fingers twice for what they called “good measure”. as they strapped you down to a metal table that felt like winter they shoved needles full of nanomachines in your arms, in all the sensitive areas that made you want to recoil and shriek like a child. your body stung and you felt what must’ve been poison coursing through your veins, taking your emotions, your memories, _you_ , and disappearing like a thief. by the time they pulled the last needle from your bleeding skin you felt vacant, empty and hollow and _clear_ , and when they asked you who you were you gazed up at them with glassed-over golden eyes and said her name for the first time.

widowmaker.

**iv.**

they took your dreams and replaced them with a nightmare so real you could only call it you.

on the chance occasion that you _did_ sleep you toppled in darkness and drowned in angry, dark waters, salt filling your lungs like air, and for a long time you found yourself wanting to scream. sometimes you’d try to break free, launching yourself through a pane of glass too frosted to be called a mirror, but time and time again you’d be greeted with a bottomless chasm on the other side that was happy to do nothing but swallow you. after dreaming of this three times you told yourself to picture lines of spikes emerging in the darkness, and one night you drifted too close to one and it sliced your jugular.

you never had that dream again.

**v.**

time doesn’t have any meaning to you anymore.

it’s as cold and dead as you are.

at least that means you can make the most of it.

**vi.**

the first time you saw the girl with the angel wings on the battlefield you miscalculated by no more than a few inches, and instead of lodging a bullet through her skull you only grazed her temple. you watched horror flicker through her eyes through your scope and before you could reload your rifle she was staring at you with big blue eyes, blood trailing down the side of her face, breaking into little branches at her cheek as they combined with tears and turned carmine.

why in the hell is she crying? for a while you thought it was out of pain.

but one night you realized it was because she recognized you.

she knew who you were, and so did you.

**vii.**

one night sombra’s silver tongue threw too much casual vitriol at you and you pinned her against the wall of a dark room too stingy to be called a kitchen. your hand dug into her neck so hard you could feel her blood pulsing against you. for a second fear flickered in her violet eyes and you had the urge to kill her.

it only took a blink for her expression to shift to something smug instead. with a scoff you released her, and she slumped down with her back against the wall and coughed, not bothering to look up at you. as you stood above her you watched her, observed her like she was a lab rat infected with some sort of sick mutation, and you were struck with a cruel curiosity that made your brows furrow.

only when you walked away, finally bored of her, did she say anything.

“struck a nerve, didn’t i?”

the two of you weren’t allowed to dine together after that. 

**viii.**

the night you killed mondatta you let tracer get away.

granted, you left her wheezing and gasping in pain on the roof of a building a good twenty feet beneath you, but she was still alive. along with killing your target you managed to fuck with whatever timepiece she had strapped to her, so realistically the mission could be deemed all but unsuccessful.

but it didn’t stop you from feeling incomplete.

one day you’re going to shoot a bullet between her pretty brown eyes and rack up your count of slaughtered overwatch agents to two.

your once-husband and a british optimist.

you couldn’t have picked a better combo.

**ix.**

the lilies that sit in a frosted cylinder above his grave have begun to wither, becoming a gradient of more brown than red, the color of dried blood. The petals have turned papery and as one breaks from the stem and drifts through the air with the snow you feel a frigid gust dance around you, cold enough to give you what might be goosebumps. someone’s dusted a layer of snow from his headstone, revealing his name, engraved forever in cold stone.

the overwatch logo sits next to his name like a war medal and you hope that he’s there, six feet under the wintery earth, dissolving into oblivion, dying just as you did after you killed for the first time. after you wiped his blood from your hands like it was nothing but a dinner stain.

gabriel- or rather reaper, as he calls himself now- once told you over a glass of whiskey that death has a way of wedging itself into your life and making who it takes personal. its goal is to make you surrender yourself to it so it can tear you apart easier.

as you turn away from his grave you stare at your own boots as they create footprints in the snow, tainting the purity that coats the ground like a blanket. what gabriel said to you that night echoes in your head and something clicks. it all makes sense now. loss, dread, life, death- everything.

by making you what you are now, talon never made you above life. they made you beneath it instead.

**x.**

if there was anything amélie was good at it was pretending. she could throw herself on a stage with pointed toes, her body sifting fluidly through the motions she’d spent years memorizing, and she was as malleable as she was graceful. she could pretend that her life was a ballet, a story she could act out, and she’d fool everyone she’d meet with a warm smile and a gentle heart that covered her inner turmoil. she was by no means fragile, but she still broke under pressure. even the most flexible bones are still capable of breaking, after all- but silly dead ballerinas won’t ever understand that.

more importantly, in the time you’ve been alive you’ve made a list in your head of the three biggest things amélie ever fucked up. whether it was out of boredom, or even out of spite, you don’t know.

pretending was amélie’s biggest sin. marrying someone she didn’t love was her second. birthing you like some kind of bastard child to take her place was her third.

amélie lacroix was a selfish, naïve woman, and truthfully it was her life, rather than gérard's, that you took first. you trapped her in your web and sucked the life out of her like a demon.

you don’t regret anything. you know you never will. 


End file.
